On Yer Bike
by Lampito
Summary: 'On yer bike' (slang): An impolite way to tell someone to go away because you're not listening to them. Which is pretty much the response Sam and Dean get for their opinion on a vacation project. But what starts out as having fun fossicking through the junk at Bobby's yard could turn out to be a matter of life and death...
1. Chapter 1

Well, this little bunny got lots of encouragement, so we'll try writing a bit more, and seeing if that prompts it to dictate a bit more, and maybe come up with, oh, maybe a plot, seeing as it's a plot bunny - not sure what it's name is, if anybody recognizes it, do speak up so we know whom to cheer for. For completeness, we'll start at the very beginning (it's a very good place to start). I struggled with a name for this one, but in the end I plonked for:

**Title:** On Yer Bike

**Summary:** 'On yer bike' _(slang):_ An impolite way to tell someone to go away because you're not listening to them. Which is pretty much the response Sam and Dean get for their opinion on a vacation project. But what starts out as fun fossicking through the junk at Bobby's yard could turn out to be a matter of life and death...

**Rating:** T. Because this story may contain traces of Dean.

**Setting:** As just about all of my stories are, it's set in the Jimiverse, which becomes ever more delightfully AU with every SPN episode. The Winchesters certainly take their clothes off more frequently here...

**Blame:** Lies with the Denizens who prodded the little plot bunny to start muttering again. If it clams up, it's all your own faults. That, and Real Life (curse it).

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, and I'm cool with that, because the wear and tear on the beer fridge and the hair dryer would do dreadful things to my power bills.

* * *

**Chapter One**

"One, two, three, HEAVE!"

They yanked on the rope.

"One, two, three, HEAVE!"

A twelve year old boy, and an eleven year old girl, hauled on the sodden hemp as hard as they could.

"One, two, three, HEAVE!"

Behind them, two Rottweilers, back legs scrabbling in the gravel, helped.

"One, two, three, HEAVE!"

With a twanging sound, the ancient cordage, which had quite possibly once seen service as a mooring line, let go, and all four of them ended up sprawled on the ground.

"This isn't working," Frankie stated, brushing herself off and peering at the tangle of junk that really didn't look like it had shifted at all. "Even with Thor and Athena helping." The female nudged her head under Frankie's hand, soliciting pats. "You did really good, 'Thene," she praised her dog.

"There's too much stuff all tangled together," RJ agreed, considering the problem, as his own dog Thor sniffed curiously at the mess of metal. It was the nature of a junkyard, he supposed; stuff got dumped, stuff got moved, stuff got shoved on top of other stuff, it all got stuck together unless it was purposefully, carefully stowed to begin with. "It could be stuck in the ground, too."

"It has been here for a while," conceded his cousin, shoving experimentally at what looked like the mortal remains of an old tricycle. It barely shifted. "Some of it could be rusted together."

"Maybe we need to move more from off the top," mused RJ.

"Uncle Dean always says, if at first you don't succeed, get a bigger engine," Frankie reminded her cousin. "What we need here is more grunt."

"No way," stated RJ firmly, "Absolutely no way. I've only just started havin' lessons – if I try to get the keys, and get the car down here, Dad will kill me. If I'm lucky. More likely, he'll ground me until I'm thirty, and I will never ever be allowed to drive his Baby again."

"Not the car, you moron," Frankie rolled her eyes in a way that left absolutely no doubt that she was Sam Winchester's offspring, "I mean more muscle power."

"They won't come and help," RJ said gloomily. "Dad and Uncle Sammy and Grandpa Bobby are only leavin' us alone out here because they think we can't shift it."

"I wasn't thinking of _them_," Frankie sniffed disdainfully.

RJ's eyes strayed to where their fathers' dogs, Xena and Zeus, were lounging with their ageing dam, Rosie, and elderly Rumsfeld, under the gnarled and spreading rosemary bush. "They look kinda comfy exactly where they are," he grinned ruefully.

Frankie groaned theatrically. "Men," she humphed, with all the misandry a precocious tween could muster, "Their brains are all testosterone poisoned. I said, we need more _muscle_ power."

Leaving the corner of the yard where the two cousins had been attempting to extract a particular piece of discarded machinery, she marched back to the front of the yard, towards the gates. Two stone gargoyles, clutching travel mugs (which nobody ever seemed to notice) sat sentinel atop them.

"Tiem! Zan!" called Frankie, "Can we borrow you guys for five minutes?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"It's awful quiet out there," muttered Bobby, peering into his coffee.

"Good," humphed Sam, tapping at his laptop's keyboard, "It doesn't happen that much with kids their age; enjoy it while it lasts."

"It's a nice change from Hurricane RJ," Dean conceded.

"You're not listening to me," grumped Bobby, "That's two Winchester kids out there! And when two Winchester kids go quiet, it's time to start worryin'..."

The door banged, and RJ announced his presence with his usual shout. "It's just us!" he yelled, heading straight for the cookie jar.

"Oh, goody," snarked Sam, "For a moment, I thought it was a door-knocker, fundraising for the Society For Terminally Shouty People."

"We need more cookies," RJ peered into the jar as he stuffed one into his face.

"Oh, I'll have the cook get onto it right away, sir," Bobby performed an extravagant bow. "Anythin' else you'd like the servants to do for you?"

"That would be just spiffy, Robert," trilled RJ in a dreadful British accent, "Have the cook make some more of Auntie Ronnie's triple-choc cookies, will you?"

"Idjit," glowered Bobby.

"Use your inside voice inside, RJ," sighed Dean, in the manner of a parent who suspects that no matter how many times he says it, it's never going to get through. "What are you two doin' out there?"

"Looking at the junk," Frankie replied, taking the two travel mugs to be bench. She expertly began to make coffee for both of them, something she'd learned to do at a very early age.

"Find anything good?" asked Bobby. 'Looking at the junk' was something that both youngsters had liked to do since they were small: they would find a piece of some defunct machine, and spend hours poking and prodding at it, trying to figure out how it had worked, and what it had been. There had been some pretty outlandish suggestions over the years. The tumble dryer casing that had been determined to be a time machine for squirrels was probably Bobby's favourite.

"Yeah," answered RJ, "But we can't shift it. It's stuck pretty good."

The adults exchanged small discreet smiles.

"What are you doin', Frankie?" queried Sam.

"I'm just making some coffee for the gargoyles, Dad," she replied, "While we're outside. You want one while I'm here?"

"She knows how to run that machine," beamed Dean, "I've never seen anybody turn out a low-fat, high-emo, dolphin-friendly ozone-safe skinny mocha latte which girly syrup as fast as your kid, bro."

"Zan showed me how," Frankie told them, "And I thought I'd fill their mugs up for them."

"They do love them some java," chortled Bobby. "Well, you two just be careful out there, there's stuff that can hurt you, you know that."

"Yes Grandpa Bobby," the kids chorused obediently before heading out again.

"Now, that right there," Bobby began as they left, "That right there is damned suspicious."

"They've just found something to keep them occupied," Sam assured him. "You know what they're like, RJ will try to figure out how it works, and Frankie will be in later researchin' it to see what it does."

"Besides, you saw how it's stuck under all that other stuff – they'll never get it out by themselves," Dean grinned. "And isn't that sort of play meant to be healthy for kids? You know, unstructured play, and imagination, problem solving, and all that? They're not slumped in front of a game console."

"Sometimes, it'd be less worry if they were," Bobby sighed.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"What do you think?" asked RJ anxiously, as the two gargoyles peered and prodded at the tangle of metal. The two stone creatures conferred in their own subsonic language, then Tiem, the older and slightly smaller of the two, gave him a big grin, and a thumbs up. "Awesome! Well, there's no time like the present."

Zan gestured to him to step back, then the gargoyles took hold of the old tricycle. Long stone arms heaved, and with a creak and a snap, it came away. Tossing it aside, they took hold of what was underneath it, and began to pull.

Frankie was right – it had been there for some time, and it was partially stuck in the earth. But it was no match for the strength of living granite, and the mechanical advantage of such long arms, and eventually, with a violent shudder, it sprang free of the tangle of decaying metal.

Tiem and Zan picked themselves up, then inspected their booty with RJ.

"This is great!" the kid enthused, "Just about all the bits are here! Thanks guys! We couldn't have done it without you!"

Grinning, the gargoyles each performed a little bow.

"I got you coffee," announced Frankie, who'd been walking more slowly with the mugs. "Oh, hey, you got it out! Thanks!"

Zan jumped into the air and did a happy little somersault, and they accepted their mugs with nods of thanks, then the gargoyles of Singer Salvage headed back to their gateposts, returning to their unceasing vigilance.

RJ heaved their acquisition upright. "Come on," he chattered in excitement, "We gotta get this to the shed!"

With a giggle of glee, she got behind him to help push.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"You think this might be a job?" asked Bobby.

"Could be," confirmed Sam, "But I need more intel, to work out what it is."

"I never do like to hear that there may be a fugly operatin' this close to home," the old Hunter muttered. "It's not even an hour away. Barely the other side of town."

"Which means, once Samantha here has done his laptop dancing, we can go and gank it, then be home in time for dinner. And Auntie Ronnie's triple-choc cookies," beamed Dean sunnily. "Robert."

"Watch it, asshat," Bobby grumbled. "Well, let me know if you need a hand chasin' intel, I got somethin' I gotta look up for another Hunter, but I can... God's tits!"

"What? What?" Sam joined Bobby at the kitchen window. "What is it... oh, God, are you kidding me?"

"What is it, ladies?" Dean's curiosity prompted him to join them, "Must be something interesting to get your panties twisted..."

As RJ and Frankie went across the yard with their prize, he pushed the window open, and bellowed,

"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT!?"

"What does it look like, Dad?" grinned RJ happily. "It's our new project!"

Sam rounded on Dean. "You said they couldn't possibly get it out!" he snapped, "You said that it was stuck in there so good, that they'd never get it out!"

Bobby's eyes narrowed as they settled on the gargoyles with their mugs. "I think they coulda had some help," he sighed.

"Well, it's, it's..." stammered Dean, waving a hand uncertainly, "It's junk. It's been there for years. There's no way, no way, they'll get it running."

"Dean," said Bobby quietly, "We are talkin' about the son of a talented mechanic, who's turnin' into a damned fine wrench himself already, and the daughter of a smartass, who has already demonstrated a frightenin' capacity to figure things out. Are you _really_ sayin' you think that they'll never get it running?"

They watched, with a sense of defeat and parental gloom, as the Winchester kids manhandled the old trailbike into one of the sheds.

Dean wilted. "It's nothing I didn't do when I was a kid," he sighed. "And it could be worse. We could have the Jaeger kids here. They've got their mother's talent for metal work. Sabine can already weld almost as well as Ronnie. Neither of ours is that good with that stuff; that'll slow them down..."

Later, the door banged again, and they were back inside again.

"Please tell me you're not gonna try and get that thing going," groaned Sam.

"I don't think we can," answered RJ, with a brutally frank assessment of his own ability. "It's pretty seized up, but it's the frame that's the real problem; some bits are rusted right through. The swingarm isn't safe. I could find a lot of it in the yard, but I don't think it's something that just the two of us can do."

Dean found that he was torn between disappointment for his son, and relief that he wouldn't have to worry about the kid tearing around on a resurrected trailbike. "Well, it was worth a shot to look at it," he smiled, "Maybe you could pull the engine, see if you can get it going, they're worth money."

"So, shall we make some of Auntie Ronnie's triple-choc cookies instead?" asked Bobby.

"Oh no," smiled Frankie, moving to the sideboard to collect her cell from the charger, "Just the two of us can't do it. I came in for my phone; I'm gonna take some pictures, and send them to Sabine, and see what she things we should do."

"She's real good at that sort of stuff," RJ nodded, "If anybody can suggest a fix for that swingarm, it's her."

With a final raid on the cookie jar, they headed back outside.

"God's tits," sighed Sam.

"And Satan's toilet tissue," agreed Dean.

* * *

So, that's the start - we have another chapter, and we'll try to get this turned into an honest-to-Cas story...


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Despite his complaints about the noise and the mess, Bobby enjoyed having the kids staying at Casa Singer during school breaks. If the Jaeger pups came to visit, it could be absolute bedlam, with a pack of kids and dogs tearing around the place, but he found that a house full of kids made him feel like a content old homebody. It made him smile, sometimes; when he had lost his wife, he had been heartbroken to think that he'd never have a family, and yet here he was, a practically-dad and a practically-grandpa to a very strange yet wonderful clan. He thought that maybe this was what he was meant to do, in which case, the Almighty did indeed move in mysterious (and sometimes extremely raucous) ways.

Bobby didn't usually get too worried when Frankie was quiet. The ability to become completely absorbed in something she was reading or writing was something that she'd inherited from Sam, and something that her teachers had gushed over since she'd started school. But RJ, when young Robert John was quiet, it was the sort of quiet that you got when a puppy suddenly went quiet; nine times out of ten, it indicated that either the kid was sick, or he was, figuratively speaking, behind the sofa chewing on something you really wish he wouldn't.

However, on this occasion, the sort of quiet that Frankie was cultivating had a worrying thoughtful quality to it, of the sort that might have caused Herr Frankenstein to pause over his newspaper and coffee one day, nod at the ceiling, and chuckle to Frau Frankenstein, 'Young Victor is very quiet; what on earth do you think he gets up to, up there?'

"So, are we gonna bake these cookies?" he asked.

"Sure, Grandpa Bobby," Frankie spared him a brief glance and a smile, "Just let me bookmark this... DAAAAAD!" she suddenly bellowed, "Is epoxy or polyurethane resin better for sealing a gas tank?"

"God's tits!" yelped Bobby, "You wanna turn the volume down a bit, I might want to use these ears some time in the future..."

Sam wandered out from the study, a resigned look of despair on his face. "Is there a reason you're bellowing like a wounded bull," he asked his daughter, "Or are you trying to talk to somebody in Rawalpindi without the inconvenience of a phone?"

"I need to know what resin I can use to seal a leaky gas tank," Frankie repeated. "Where's Rawalpindi?"

"In Pakistan," Sam replied.

"Where in Pakistan?"

"In the north."

"Is it north or south of Islamabad?"

"Uh, south."

"What language do they speak there?"

"That would be, uh, Punjabi dialects, mostly, I guess."

"Isn't Urdu the national language, though? As well as English? Why is that, when it's not the most widely spoken language in Pakistan?"

"Well, it's a form of Hindustani that's mutually intelligible, and... hey!" Sam glared at his daughter. "Answer the question – why are you bellowing like an angry elephant seal?"

"I need to know about resin," Frankie indicated the screen, "To fix a gas tank. Epoxy or polyurethane?" She paused. "What does an angry elephant seal sound like?"

Sam gave his daughter a level look. "Google it. Is this for that trail bike?"

"Uh-huh," Frankie peered at the screen, frowning thoughtfully. "We got both in the sheds, I just gotta figure out which one is best." She turned guileless, trusting eyes on her father. "What do you think?"

Sam shot a silent appeal to Bobby, whose expression indicated clearly: _You're on your own here, Dad._ "Well, uh," Sam began hesitantly, "I guess you need to use whatever will stand up to gas, and, uh, won't dissolve, so, look, do you really think this is a good idea, that thing could be dangerous..."

"Yeah, I'll check the manufacturers," mused Frankie. "Thanks, Dad! Hey, Grandpa Bobby, can we make cookies now?"

"Sure thing, kiddo," chuckled Bobby, grinning at Sam over Frankie's head.

"Grandpa Bobby, have you ever had to do a spell in Punjabi? Or Urdu?"

"_Kabhi kabhi_," he replied, "Rarely. Go turn on the oven."

"Oh, God," moaned Sam, as Frankie skipped off to the kitchen, with Athena following her, tail waving, "Was I like that as a kid? I wasn't like that as a kid, was I?"

Bobby just fixed him with a grin. "Feel my pain."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean was in one of the sheds, working on convincing an engine to give up its guts for the greater good. Not only would it end up providing salvaged components that could go to rebuilt something that could actually be made to run again, but it gave him the opportunity to keep an eye on RJ, who had spent quite some time poking and prodding at the wrecked trail bike with a care and patience that worried him.

At the moment, the kid had his tablet out, and was holding it up to transmit footage of the bike, which he was discussing via his cell on speaker.

"Okay, let me see the front bit," Dean heard the voice of Sabine Jaeger, younger pup of Ronnie (the World's Crankiest Werewolf) and her sometimes-beleagered pair-bond, Andrew. "The thingy at the front, where the long bits go..."

"Which bit?" asked RJ, apparently mystified.

"Hang on, I'll ask Dad, he knows about bikes," came Sabine's voice. Dean heard her let out a series of loud barks, which was answered by a deep growl, the meaning of which was clear – _Is it absolutely necessary to bark loud enough to frighten the cats in Rawalpindi?_

"What is that? Is that a bike?" Andrew sounded intrigued. "RJ, what are you doing here?"

"Me and Frankie are gonna rebuild it!" RJ declared. "Well, we're gonna try to get it going. I don't know if we can do a rebuild on it. It's pretty beat up."

"What's that bit?" Sabine's voice asked.

"That's the triple tree," Andrew replied, "It holds the fork stanchions, and connects to the steering head. How are the head stem bearings?"

"I managed to get 'em out," sighed RJ gloomily. "They're fucked."

"RJ!" snapped Dean.

"Sorry," RJ corrected himself. "They're totally fucked."

"Show me the back bit, what was it, the swingarm?" instructed Sabine, "The bit you said you think is really damaged."

"Hang on, hang on," Andrew cut in, "Just go back to the forks for a minute – can we get a look at the sliders? If they're creased, well, I don't want to rain on your parade, but that mean that they are also totally fucked..."

As RJ carefully manoeuvred the tablet around to show the damage to the Jaegers, Dean took out his cell, and wandered casually out of the shed.

"Call your damned husband to heel!" he hissed without preamble when it picked up.

"Gday, Dean," Ronnie's eye-roll was audible, "How nice to hear from you..."

"I mean it!" Dean yapped, "Call your husband, and your kid, to heel!"

"What are they doing?" asked Ronnie, bemused. "They're just sitting in front of the PC..."

Dean briefly described RJ and Frankie's new project. "And those two are giving him advice on how to fix it!"

"A bike?" Ronnie yelped in horror, "A motorbike? They've found a motorbike? Those things kill people!"

"Tell me about it!" Dean agreed.

"What the hell possessed you to let them start a bike as a holiday project, you irresponsible twit!" she demanded.

"And your husband and... huh?" Dean paused. "It wasn't my fault! They found it, and dragged it out! I didn't worry, because it was so stuck in the junk, I didn't think they could get it out, but they got the gargoyles to help, and..."

"You knew it was there, and you let them find it?" Ronnie's voice was incredulous. "Are you deranged?"

"Right now, I'm worried!" Dean shot back. "Your husband and your daughter are, as we speak, aiding and abetting!"

"Not on my watch," she growled, the stomping of her footsteps audible over the line.

The snarling was as frightening as anything that he'd ever heard from a feral Old North werewolf – yup, he thought, Ronnie really could be very cranky – as he heard her taking her pair-bond and her pup to task. Even the Winchesters' dogs, Xena and Thor, whined, and dropped their heads at the sound of the diatribe in Canine. He heard Sabine's pleading whines, and Andrew's calm rumbles, but the angry growling continued until he heard whuffs of submission.

"I've done my bit at this end," she told him, "I expect you to put a bloody axe through that thing before the end of the week."

"Thanks, Ronnie," he breathed a sigh of relief as he cut the call.

On the one hand, he felt guilty for sabotaging his son's project, but on the other, the thought of his boy hurtling around on a bike with an engine frightened him in a way he hadn't experienced since Sam was a kid. RJ was fearless enough on a pushbike, pulling stunts and taking crashing falls that had seen Dean running outside, heart in his mouth, more than once.

No, it was for the best, he decided. Keeping his boy safe, and his niece too, was the priority. RJ would learn that sometimes, things couldn't be fixed, and it was as disappointing as hell, but that was life.

_You can't keep him safe forever_, Bobby had pointed out more than once.

_I know, _Dean would sigh, _But he's just a kid, _and he would turn to his son, his boy, who was on the cusp of turning into a young man, already nearly as tall as his father – but every time Dean looked at him, what he saw was his little boy, who needed to be kept safe, because just hearing RJ cry that time he broke his wrist when he was six years old tore his heart to pieces, and the thought of anything worse happening to his little boy was just unbearable...

He gave it a few minutes, picked up another piece of casing, and went back to the shed.

RJ looked downcast. "Auntie Ronnie caught Sabine and Uncle Andrew helping," he said, "And she got really mad."

"Well, she's pretty cranky at the best of times," Dean sympathised. "They won't really be in any trouble with her. I'm sure she's just worried about your safety, is all."

"Yeah, probably," RJ nodded. He moved to the tool bench, selected a large wrench, and started fiddling with the front end of the bike. "I guess we'll just have to try to figure it out for ourselves."

"Attaboy," Dean grinned, feeling simultaneously proud of and sorry for his son. He turned back to the engine he was working on, but paused to sniff the air. "Hey, smell that?"

RJ put down the wrench, and sniffed, then smiled. "Cookies!" he pronounced happily.

"Why don't we go inside for some lunch?" suggested Dean. "And maybe by the time we've had lunch, the cookies will have cooled down, and we can pester the ladies of the house until they hand 'em over."

"Awesome!" enthused RJ, turning to head back to the house.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Later in the day, the weather turned cold – RJ was reading an old issue of _Popular Mechanics_ on two stroke engines, with Thor snoring at his feet, when his phone chirped. He consulted it, then picked up his tablet.

There was a message from Sabine, with a whole bunch of carefully drawn diagrams, and a couple of website references.

_**Hey RJ, I think we got enough footage to see what you're dealing with. You were right; that swingarm is damaged. But I don't think it's a lost cause – clean it up, and we'll have another look. And Dad says the forks look okay, they're just twisted in the triple tree thingy – he's given me instructions on how to check them for creasing and bends, which I'll send. But for that swingarm, this is what you'll have to do...**_

* * *

Some of the Denizens may recall that, in one chapter of the Plot Bunny Escapees story (The Rainbow Bridge), RJ had been adopted by a part-Hellhound puppy named Thor. From that litter of nine, which had been sired by Lemmy, Xena Chose Dean, Zeus Chose Sam, and Athena Chose Frankie. (Ares also Chose Ronnie). Those dogs would be about two years old, now.

Poor Dean. Poor Sam. Fancy thinking that telling a couple of Winchester kids that something couldn't be done and shouldn't be done, and expecting them to pay attention. What silly-billies they are...

Send reviews, because Reviews are the Post-Lunch Cookies In The Kitchen Of Life!*

*Or the _pre_-lunch cookies, if you prefer. Or, if you like, you could just have cookies _for _lunch.


	3. Chapter 3

Hmmm, haven't quite figured out what this plot bunny's name is: we've had some good suggestions, including the idea that it would be a biker's name. Mind you, you won't find a rufty-tufty getting around on a beat-up trail bike. Imogen is nice; so is Buttercup (I can see a bunny in a leather jacket with big yellow flowers on the back patch). Or it could be Jeffrey. If anybody sees the bunny, try to work out what its gender is (I don't think I can cope with another intersex plot bunny – Mavgang messed with my head – so if a bunny called Jeffrey suddenly announces that he wants to live as a doe, and would like everybody to call him Imogen, I will have to go and have a little lie down).

* * *

**Chapter Three**

The sound of gunfire while the kids were out of sight might have been an immediate worry anywhere else, but at Singer Salvage, it was reassuring, because A) you knew exactly where they were, B) if they were practising their shooting it meant that they were being careful, and C) Sam or Dean would be close enough to keep a surreptitious eye on them anyway.

"Damn," muttered RJ, missing a can. His Dad had only just let him fire the Desert Eagle without close supervision, and he was still getting used to the kick. There was a ping, and the can jumped from the fence post.

"Can we move back yet?" humphed Frankie, lowering her weapon. Her preference ran to long arms – she was turning out to have something of a talent for long shots.

"In a minute," he replied, taking aim at the next can, "And don't shoot my cans."

He took his shot; the can went zinging off the fence, then so did the last two.

When he'd cleared the pistol and put it down, Frankie and the dogs went looking for the cans, and he joined in. "How are you doin' with the tank?" he asked.

"I gotta run some test batches," she replied, picking up one target that had been used so often that it was a series of holes barely held together by jagged metal. "How's the frame looking?"

"I think it's okay," RJ replied, "The fix for the swingarm worked, and I think I can get the chain tensioners working. The chain and sprockets are pretty chewed up, but they'll hold." His face turned gloomy. "You don't wanna know how much new parts would cost. And I'm not gonna waste my breath asking for an advance on my allowance so I can buy bike parts. Dad'll pitch a fit."

"Dad's already pitching a fit," shrugged Frankie dismissively, doing an astonishingly accurate impression of her father, complete with bitchface. "Those things are dangerous, Frankie, people get killed, Frankie, stick to safer stuff like demons and spirits and vampires, Frankie..."

"Yeah," RJ grinned at his cousin's perfect rendition of his uncle, "I think it's just a parent thing." He drooped again. "The frame isn't the problem. I think the gearbox is."

"Can you fix it?" she asked.

"I got it soaking in penetrating oil," he answered, "But gearboxes can be tricky. I can _see_ how it works, and how it's _supposed_ to work, but it's been sitting for so long, it's all gunked up." He waved his hands vaguely. "I can't ask Dad to help – he say he's busy, and it's our project anyway, and he's about as enthusiastic about it as your dad is."

"Well, I'm not ready to give up just yet," asserted Frankie. "You gotta be prepared to do research."

"I guess," grunted RJ. "It'd be easier if I could just ask somebody who knows about this stuff..."

Frankie gave him a brilliant smile. He turned a confused expression on her, then caught her meaning.

"You're just so adorable when you try to keep up with the rest of the class," she told him. "No wonder Karen Walker is sweet on you."

"No she isn't," RJ shot back, his face colouring slightly.

"She is," Frankie insisted. "That's why she invited you to her party."

"Who told you that?" demanded RJ.

"Dad did," Frankie replied airily, "He talked to her mom. And Brenda Woods and Leanne Cropley got into a fight over who was gonna sit on the other side of you..."

RJ muttered something dire about girls as they headed back to the house to put the guns away.

From his vantage point behind one of the sheds, Dean smiled, shook his head, and turned back to the engine he was working on, making a mental note to give RJ a bit of dirt on his uncle to even things up a bit.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"I've got it!" Sam looked up from the ancient tome he was reading, and beamed.

"Good," grunted Bobby, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes, "Because I'm not makin' any headway here, and we need to let 'em know what they're dealin' with before..."

"No, no," Sam waved dismissively at the table, which was covered in the research they were doing for a couple of Hunters who had run into something nasty and obscure in a corner of Oklahoma, "I've got a plan for the bike!"

"The bike?" echoed Bobby.

"That damned bike that the kids are working on," Sam elaborated. "I've got a plan!"

Bobby sighed heavily. "Do I even want to know?"

"Well, it's a motorcycle, right?" Sam began. "Motorcycles are dangerous. They kill people, right?"

"Let's just put aside the idea of inanimate objects having any sort of thought process, free will, or capacity to make decisions," noted Bobby, "A number of Congressmen I could name notwithstandin'. So, if motorcycles kill people..."

"Then, it might already have killed someone!" Sam reasoned. "So, what we do is, we convince the kids that it's haunted by an unquiet spirit..."

Bobby gave him a level stare. "I always thought you were way too young to read _Christine_," he declared, "If your Daddy had been payin' attention, he'd'a taken that damned book off you..."

"Not possessed," Sam clarified, "Haunted."

"A haunted motorcycle?" Bobby didn't sound convince.

"Totally!" Sam continued. "We encountered a haunted car, once, and there's been a haunted skateboard..."

"I remember that one," grumbled Bobby, "Your brother had a broken arm and was not a patient patient."

"...And we've dealt with a haunted hair-dryer..."

"I gotta admit, on you, that soft wave looked good," chortled Bobby.

"...And there was that haunted spray tan booth..."

"Heh heh," Bobby chuckled, "And you did look like the biggest and most surprised carrot a body could ever clap eyes on..."

"...And there was that pair of haunted ballet shoes..."

"Fifty-two fouettés en tournant, and en pointe, too!" recalled Bobby, "And he didn't travel an inch! You know, if Dean hadn't'a become a Hunter, he could've out-batteried Baryshnikov. Or at least, he coulda been the star attraction of the Trocks."

"...And there was that haunted washer..."

"Don't remind me," Bobby griped, "I still got a scar from the lint filter."

"...And there was that haunted teapot..."

"It was a tea cosy," Bobby corrected him. "The haunted tea cosy of Polecat Bottoms. That was a tricky one."

"... So a haunted motorcycle is totally feasible," Sam concluded. "Didn't you once say that when you were younger, you owned a haunted motorcycle?"

"That was Sofia," Bobby recalled fondly, "And she wasn't haunted. She was temperamental. And nobody owns a Ducati, boy, you just get the privilege of payin' its upkeep while it stays with ya."

"Whatever," muttered Sam. "So, we convince the kids the bike is haunted, then we have to salt and burn it, end of problem."

"Uh-huh," nodded Bobby, "And what problem would that be?"

Sam stared at him. "The motorcycle!" he yapped, "Haven't you been listening? The motorcycle is the problem!"

Bobby shook his head, chuckling to himself. "Ya know, I seem to recall a couple of kids who stayed here one Summer, the oldest one woulda been about RJ's age, his brother was younger than Frankie but just as bright, and one day, these two idjits hauled an old minibike wreck outta the junk and pushed it into one o' the sheds, and decided to see whether they could get it going. Had a lot of fun with it, as I recall."

Sam scowled. "That was different," he muttered.

"Yeah?" prompted Bobby. "How, exactly?"

"It was... it was... we didn't know any better!" Sam snapped. "Our Dad didn't give a rat's ass about what we did, his idea of 'keep his kids safe' was to show 'em how to put down a salt line and give 'em firearms, we coulda made our own bungee cords out of stolen jockstraps and he wouldn't have cared! We could've gotten hurt, but if it wasn't caused by a demon, he wouldn't have given a shit!"

"You watch your mouth, son," Bobby rumbled, "You father had a whole host o' failin's, but he did care about your safety. It's why he left you here with me when he went after somethin' real nasty, or old Yellow Eyes." He sat back again. "If I recall correctly, you did have a number of crashes with that thing."

"I remember," Sam muttered, "Dean sprained his wrist, and cut his leg open, and I lost all the skin down one shin, and got a concussion after I ran into a tree."

"Yup," nodded Bobby, "And you learned about target fixation real quick after that."

"Yeah, but..." Sam Winchester appeared lost for words. "These are our kids, Bobby," he said finally, "Our kids. My daughter. Dean's son. They're children."

"Uh-huh," Bobby agreed. "And kids learn by doing. And sometimes, making mistakes."

"That can mean getting hurt," Sam observed.

"Sometimes," Bobby agreed, "And if it does, it's terribly educational."

Sam let out a huff. "I don't know how you can just calmly sit there, knowing what they're up to..."

"I can't," Bobby interruped. "On the inside, I'm concerned as hell, just the way I was when you and Dean finally got that piece of junk to start. But if I'd told you not to, you'd just have found a way anyways, because that's what kids do. Especially Winchester kids." He smiled. "RJ's gonna be a mechanic at least as good as his dad, and Frankie has a talent for figurin' things out that's gonna find an outlet somehow. And you survived – if you hadn't tried, you wouldn't'a learned how to ride a bike. And avoid trees. And develop a serious aversion to doin' anything carelessly if it might cause a bad case of gravel rash."

Sam dropped his head into his hands with a moan. "Oh, God, I can't help it," he almost wailed, "Kelly will kill me if anything happens to Frankie. And I really don't want to piss off a woman who totes as much firepower as she does." He looked up. "Don't look at me like that; I know what she's capable of. I've sparred with her."

"Is that what you kids are calling it these days?" asked Bobby archly.

Sam groaned. "Every time I look at Frankie, it seems like just last week, she was this little bundle I could hold with one arm," he said wistfully. "Does it ever get any better? As they get older, does the worrying get any better?"

"Nope," empathised Bobby, "But you get better at dealin' with it."

"Great," Sam grumbled, "Something to look forward to. Yay parenthood."

The kitchen door banged, and they heard the sound of cupboards being searched. Taking their coffee mugs, Sam and Bobby headed for the kitchen, where the back end of Frankie was sticking out of a cupboard.

"God's tits, look at the size of that mouse," mused Bobby, "I gotta put down traps."

"What are you doing, Frankie?" asked Sam.

"I need jars," his daughter replied, retrieving two empty glass jars and putting them on the table before kneeling down to look for more.

"Plannin' on making jelly?" asked Bobby.

"Resin mixes," Frankie explained, finding another one. "I gotta do some tests to work out what amount of setter to use. It's gotta stay gloopy long enough for me to swish it around in the tank.

"That's..." Bobby shot Sam A Look. "That's great, sweetheart," Sam managed. "Very systematic."

She found a couple more, then took her haul back outside, and headed back out to the shed to set up her experiments. RJ was patiently cleaning up the gearbox.

"How's it going?" she asked as she measured out her monomer solution.

"Slowly," RJ replied. Making sure his father's back was turned, he took out his phone, and took some footage.

He sent a message later that night, in the privacy of his room. He didn't get a reply until the next day.

**Sorry, RJ, I had to wait until I was at work – it's just better if your Auntie Ronnie doesn't know, or my death will be slow and bloody. So, what you're dealing with here is a sequential selection gearbox. First, you have to clean up the selector drum. If you lose top gear, it doesn't mean the whole thing is a total loss...**

* * *

In the Jimiverse, the whole 'haunted ballet shoes' episode was much funnier than in canon. There was tutu involvement. And a tiara. And Sam looked so fetching in the tights.

If you are unfamiliar with the ballet company Les Ballets Trocadero de Monte Carlo, aka the Trocks, I urge you to go YouChoobing and find some of their performances. Their technical mastery of the art form is astonishing, and their interpretations of classical works are truly remarkable. Seriously, as soon as you've left a review, go and look them up.

Meanwhile, send reviews, because Reviews are the Meth-Laced Carrots In The Plot Bunny Hutch!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

_Clannnnggggggg_ "AaaaaaaaaFUCK!"

Dean's head shot up at the distinctive sound of a gas cylinder being moved.

"Kid's got your mouth, that's for sure," muttered Bobby, not looking up from his newspaper.

"What the hell are they doin'?" Dean wondered, going to the window.

"Improvisin', adaptin' and overcomin'," chortled Bobby, as Dean watched his son wrestle with the cylinder. Frankie watched, arms folded, her eye-rolling practically audible, then headed for the gates. A moment later, she was back with the gargoyles.

"That's cheating," Dean complained, as RJ obviously explained how he wanted them to hold which bits where while he welded, "When I was his age, I would've had to figure out how to build a jig."

"At his age, you did," Bobby reminded him. "Took you three tries to get the handlebars straight, if I recall correctly."

"Yeah, well, it's tricky," Dean grunted. "Plus, I wasn't allowed to weld by myself until I was his age. I could strangle that woman."

"Well, her Daddy put the gas axe in her hands when she was eight, it was only natural for her to do the same with hers." Bobby chortled at the memory – whilst staying with the Jaeger pack, RJ had watched Connor and Sabine practising their welding, and agitated to have a try. With gleefully malicious benevolence, Ronnie had spent the week coaching him in soldering, welding and even took him to the workshop to do some ammo casting, so that when his ten-year-old came home and announced that he was now competent to do metalwork by himself, Dean had pitched a fit, and threatened to fill Ronnie full of silver. (Her smiling assertion that his boy was not yet capable of casting silver rounds that could be fired, but she'd be happy to keep coaching him, did nothing to de-escalate the situation.) "At least you know that he's been taught by someone who knows what she's doin' – he'll never set a bench on fire."

"I guess," muttered Dean, reflecting that if he'd had a stern momma werewolf standing over him while he learned, he might've been a bit more careful with the whole open flame thing too.

"Anyway, it's nice for him and Sabine to have something to do together, when the wolf brats are here," shrugged Bobby.

Dean's head whipped around. "Whaddya mean, 'something to do together'?" he demanded.

"Just that," Bobby beamed innocently. "They're good friends, and it's nice that there's somethin' they can do together to keep 'em out of mischief."

"He's too young for 'mischief'," growled Dean, "And if I thought for a minute that he was even lookin' sideways at Ronnie's whelp..."

"Hold ya horses, ya idjit," chuckled Bobby, "They aint even teenagers yet! All I meant was, it's better for 'em to have somethin' constructive to do, rather than sit inside in front of a screen. Wholesome." He blinked guilelessly up at Dean. "Very useful, metalworking. I'd be encouraging it."

Dean looked out the window again; his 'little boy' was assiduously pulling on his protective gear, and overseeing the donning of goggles by his cousin. "Oh, God," he groaned, "My kid's growin' up, Bobby..."

"Suck it up, buttercup," grinned Bobby smugly.

"...And where the hell did he find out about sequential gearboxes?" Dean demanded. "That sort of shit is really difficult to pick up from a book."

"Didn't stop you figurin' it out," Bobby reminded him once more.

"Yeah, but it took me weeks! I destroyed the first one, and stripped the gears off the second one! I've had a look at what they're doing – I think top gear is a lost cause, but otherwise, he's getting it together, like he was following instructions, but I haven't..."

Dean's eyes narrowed as he turned to Bobby. "Have you been helping him?" he growled. "Bobby, have you been explaining motorcycle guts to my kid?"

"Nope," Bobby turned a page of his paper serenely, "If I had, I wouldn't tell ya, but nope. You've seen me – me and Sam have been busy researchin' a couple of potential jobs, and I got that translation to do. It aint me."

"Then if it's not you, who..." the sequential selectors in Dean's head clicked from first through to top, without even using the clutch. "I'll kill him," he stated firmly, "She taught him to weld, and now her asshat pair-bond husband is subverting my kid, when I get my hands on him next, so help me I'll..."

"Dangle amusingly from one paw when he picks you up by the scruff of your jacket, probably," predicted Bobby. "Make sure you do it when I'm around to watch. Or at least get someone to take pictures."

"I'll tell Ronnie, then," Dean fumed, "I'll tell her what Andrew is doin', and she can tear him a new one for me, she'll go completely momma-bear on his ass, and..." he stopped, listening to himself. "Fuck," he sighed.

"I believe the expression you're lookin' for is 'Dicks Before Chicks'," suggested Bobby, picking up a pencil. "Now, why don't you go and do something more useful than whining about the joys of parenthood, and leave a body to commune with the gods of the cruciverbalists in peace." He folded the paper carefully, and studied the crossword. "Or you can get yourself some coffee, and help me, here. Let's see, 'Our musical achieves the impossible' – what do ya think, referrin' to a Broadway show, or an anagram?"

Muttering something about crazy old farts who were clearly losing their marbles and no amount of exercising the grey matter would hang onto them, Dean stalked out.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

After the kids had torn through the kitchen later, snacking like starving zombies in a neurosurgeon's office (and Frankie filling in the last couple of crossword clues with Bobby), Bobby made his way to the study, where Sam was still peering at a manuscript and his laptop as though they had both offended him mightily.

"No more luck?" prompted Bobby, putting the coffee down at the elbow of his practically-son.

"It doesn't make sense," griped Sam, clearly annoyed that the evidence wasn't lining up to point to an answer. "It just doesn't make sense. Unless there's some recent attempt to convene the Anti-Justice League Of Evil Entities Anonymous, coffee and cookies afterwards, nothing fits." He pointed to the screen. "Look, somebody attacked by 'a guy with a whole mouthful of fangs like a piranha, and tried to bite my neck'. Sounds like a vampire."

"Could just be a weirdo out for perverted kicks," Bobby pointed out. "You know, them 'sanguinarians'? The weirdos who insist that sunlight hurts, and they have to drink blood to 'boost their chakras', or somethin'?"

"Doesn't fit," grunted Sam, "The general public are all still convinced that vampires only have two prominent feeding fangs, and this guy was hardly a lifestyler – was wearing a plain tee and jeans, and no make-up. Then, there was this – a woman caught on CCTV breaking into a funeral home, and clearly observed eating a very fresh corpse."

"Ghoul?" mused Bobby.

"An then," Sam went on, "There's this – a woman claims she was robbed by somebody who was her exact replica. She managed to get some footage on her phone, and there's a definite flash of retinal flare."

"Shapeshifter?" Bobby looked perplexed.

"But shapeshifters don't, as a rule, have vertical slit pupils and canine teeth," Sam huffed, "Which is what a homeowner reported seeing on the last night of the full moon, when he was walking his dog after dark. He was attacked, but the dog fought with and drove off his attacker, and the vet treating the animal said the wounds looked like dog bites."

"Home-grown werewolf?" proposed Bobby.

"Or a shapeshifter impersonating a native werewolf," Sam sighed, sitting back and rubbing his eyes. "I don't know if that's even possible. They're both vulnerable to silver."

"Just you don't try to set up any experiments, young Victor," grunted Bobby.

"Then, there was the guy at the supermarket who, and I quote," Sam peered at the screen again, "According to one admittedly kind of traumatised witness, 'Turned into a Cardassian in the fresh food section, punched through the glass front of the butchers' display cabinet and began to eat handfuls of raw meat'."

"So, a vampire, dressed as a ghoul, who's actually a shapeshifter, who's impersonatin' a werewolf, who's havin' some sort of identity crisis and wants to live as a rugaru'," Bobby shook his head. "Could even want us to call him Loretta. That's some cabaret act. Hell, I'd buy a ticket, provided I could sit in the front row, armed to the teeth with everythin' I could carry."

Sam sipped at his coffee thoughtfully. Zeus pushed his head under his Alpha's arm, and whuffed reassuringly. Sam grinned, and scratched the dog's ears. "Yeah, you're probably right," he smiled down into adoring brown eyes, "Maybe I should take a break, let it run in the background for a while."

"You could let Frankie have a look," suggested Bobby. "It'd be good practice for her, and she's gettin' good at figuring things out."

Sam turned a sour look on his practically-father. "I thought she was exercising her reasoning on repairing that damned bike's tank," he said sourly.

"Did a good job, too, from what I could see," Bobby noted, "Although my jars have been seriously depleted." He paused. "Don't let Marcy hear that I said that, she'll be tryin' to rope me into one of her Tuppercrack parties again. There's somethin' unnaturally... intense about some o' them wimmen."

"Next time you see Crowley, you could always ask him whether the whole party plan thing was something he came up with," shrugged Sam.

"I aint summonin' that asshat demon just to satisfy my curiosity," growled Bobby. "It's bad enough that your nephew did, so I gotta set an example."

"What?" Sam did a visible double take. "RJ... did RJ summon Crowley?"

"For Cas's sake, don't tell your brother," muttered Bobby ominously. "They were doin' some project at school about slang, and somehow the topic of British slang came up, and apparently RJ thought that talking to somebody in the know would be quicker than readin' about it."

"Sam's eyes bugged. "Shit! What happened?"

"What d'ya think happened?" humphed Bobby. "His Hellside Majesty cheerfully obliged. Carefully spelled 'em out, so RJ could write 'em all down. Some of 'em, I had to go and look up. Then, I had to censor 'em down to a list suitable for submission by a 12-year-old. Shortened the list considerably, I can tell you. The boy was particularly fond of 'wanker', for a while."

"He could've picked that one up from Ronnie," Sam reminded him, "She uses that a lot. On Dean, mostly."

"Well, I've put a veto on summonin' the King of Hell to help with homework," Bobby stated, "He can suffer for his education like everybody else."

Sam smiled. "A couple of years back, I found Frankie praying to Cas, asking if she could talk to Einstein, so he could explain his theory of relativity to her."

Bobby sighed. "Oh dear, so, what happened?"

"Cas was really good about it," Sam explained, "He told her that Professor Einstein was still working on the details, and didn't have it all figured out just yet, but one day, when she goes to Heaven, she can sit in on as many of his lectures as she likes."

"You gotta give 'em full points for tryin', I suppose," Bobby decided, "Thinkin' outside the box, so to speak."

"Sometimes, I be happy for them to stay the hell in the box," Sam almost whined, "Are they seriously gonna get that bike running?"

"Could do," Bobby opined, "Why don't you do a bit of surveillance? You could take Zeus outside, and under the pretence of playing a game of F-R-I-S-B-E..."

Before Bobby had even finished spelling out the F-word (one of the words that must never be carelessly uttered out loud in a household with dogs, along with the B-word and the W-word and the V-word and the D-word), Zeus leapt to his feet, barked excitedly, and spun around on the spot a couple of times in excitement.

Sam drooped. "Even my dog is too smart for my peace of mind," he moaned, "Would it have helped if I'd named the kid Barbie, and the dog Goofy?"

"I doubt it," laughed Bobby. "Go on, he's worked it out, go before he knocks something over."

"It's ridiculous," Sam griped, "Do we need more damned code words? That's it, from now on, when anybody means the F-word, they will use the word 'Kenneth'." He stood up, sending Zeus into further paroxysms of doggy excitement. "Come on, then," he chuckled, "Let's go spy on the kids. If I didn't know better, I'd wonder if Somebody In Charge Up There hates me."

* * *

Whoever solves the cryptic clue first wins some chocolate-coated internets!

Meanwhile, what is this job that Sam's researching? Maybe Crowley is holding a Tupperware party for fuglies – "...And the airtight seal will keep brains, human flesh and even blood as fresh and delicious as when you tore them from their screaming owners!" – or make your own suggestions.

And send reviews to feed the plot bunny, Imogen-Bubba, because Reviews are the Self-Propagating Airtight Containers Breeding In The Kitchen Cupboards Of Life! (They do, you know. Breed, I mean. It's the only explanation. Although I haven't figured out where the lids go.)


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